Snow comes down
Bombarding, blinding.
Streets bustle.

Love, though beauteous,
May raze one’s sanity and logicality
Plunging them into an epoch
Of incapacity and hysteria.
Time may feel as though it has
Ceased it’s progression.

The depravity eats away at the heart,
Wringing out all hope, all happiness.
Though composure may be maintained.
Or it can be spilt on the hard floor.

The snow stops,
The air becomes crisp and clear.
Time finds its equilibrium
⋯
The streets bustle once again.